


Calypso

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the edge of the Undying Lands, two lost souls collide. An AU fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calypso

**Author's Note:**

> _Calypso was a nymph, the daughter of the Titan Atlas. She lived on the island of Ogygia. After the last of Odysseus' men had perished at sea, Odysseus himself was washed ashore on Ogygia, where Calypso became enamored of him, taking him as her lover and promising him immortality if he would stay with her. Odysseus refused her offer, wishing to return home to Ithaca and to his wife, Penelope. But Calypso refused to let him leave, and held him prisoner for seven years. Finally Athena complained of Odysseus' plight to Zeus, and Zeus sent Hermes to Ogygia to order Calypso to set Odysseus free. Calypso complied reluctantly, allowing Odysseus to construct a small boat and set sail from the island._

Down by the sea, the gaping dark caves endured the full blast of the weather and the waves. No mortal could withstand the tearing wind that blew so cold here and no feet could stand steady on the shifting sands. A lone figure stood on the cliffs, his face turned towards the wind. A small tin lamp, concealed within a curling hand, glowed red against the flesh, as it swung back and forth, casting a thin light out upon the waves. 

Far at sea, the waves roared and surged and the seabirds wheeled at the early on-set of evening, drawn in by the gathering of the rain clouds and the tempest out at sea. A tiny boat crested the waves, green as glass and flecked with foam that pulled it, little by little, closer to the shore. Oars hung uselessly and the sail flapped like a ragged moon. When the boat caught on the rocks beneath, the wood splintered on the sharp crags, rupturing deep. Water rose and split and hewed and the lantern spat and smoked in the salt spray that filled the cold air as it fell with a clatter to the ground. 

Down the cliffs, down to the roaring shore, he climbed, the moonlight wavering and dimming with each staggering step. The wind tore at his face and his cloak billowed behind him as though he carried the weight of the world upon his back. When his feet sank deep into the cruel sharp stones on the shore, he began to run, the shingle sucking him to the land, holding him back as he struggled to the rocks. The ageless cliffs loomed above, hanging with green weeds and crustaceans and beyond was the open sea, ink dark now, and dissolving into the sky. 

It was true, there was danger in the sea and the desire for it could be perilous when carried to its end. Messages had been scrawled on driftwood, on the back of shells, of weed wrapped into parcels and cast into the sea, only to be returned on the back of the next tide, washed up on the sand, their cries inverted. 

He had sought too much, and been flung to the furthest shores, adrift on his memories, alert to the scents of home that carried on the restless tide. Sitting on the wild shore, he had watched the seabirds spinning in the sky and, studying them carefully, began to craft wings out of driftwood and leaves, bound together with strands of dried kelp, twisted into a tough and pliable rope. 

Tying them to his shoulders and flexing his muscles taut, he stood on the summit of the high cliffs and looked down at himself, pinioned on the water, floating outspread, feathers and wood and wire transformed into beauty, blood and bone. The wind tore through the slanting feathers, filling them with the possibility of flight. He looked out over the churning sea, deepening and darkening where it passed from palest blue to emerald green where the sky plummeted, and felt a determined breath lift him for a moment where he stood, expectant on the very tips of his toes, lifting his arms high over his head, his body drawn straight as an arrow, every twisting sinew defined clearly beneath silvery skin. But the breath grew hesitant and withdrew, and he sank to his knees on the cliff, the defeated wings hanging from his shoulder blades, ragged and sadly sighing. 

The memory of Eressea was still clear and bright in his mind, and with it came the promise of rescue and relief. His white house still waited there on the tall green hill, the red flowers blooming in the windows and the fruit golden on the tree. The sea sparkles and the waves roll smooth and low over the pearl white sand. There is music in the song of the grass under his feet, treading so lightly up the hill to the little white house. The ground is soft and warm. The door stands open and the rooms within are clean and bright. A lyre hangs on the wall. Taking it down, he sits on the bright carpet, and runs his fingers over the strings in a lazy caress. It shivers and hums. Shifting it on his knee, he begins to play. He is amazed by the talent of his hands, as they work the strings artfully, drawing the pure music out as if by will alone. He is endowed with so many new gifts here that he never knew the pleasure of on Arda. 

The windows look out to the west. There are no windows here that look East. That way is blocked now, and cannot be opened to him again. 

If he looks hard enough he can almost see the mountain of Ilmarin and the lofty halls of Manwe and Varda, who sit within and listen, delighting in the sound of the lyre that sings clearly, even within their vaulted halls. He knows nothing of this, only the sweet pain that is pulled out of the plucking strings. 

Varda remarks distantly on the skin like moonlight and the eyes dark as the blue of the twilight, but Manwe is listening and wondering and he craves attention from the mortal, the notes stinging in his breast, for he feels every resonance of pain within the sweet melody. He feels the stirring of longing and he wonders if the hands that wring such wonders from the lyre might one day play for him alone in these glorious halls. 

“He still looks East, his heart is tied,” Varda remarked, closing her eyes. “He rises when the sun is setting on his love.”

“Then he will be lost to us.” Manwe sighed, running his hands through his hair.

“He carries his own light, it will guide him when he walks in the darkness.”

“So the wind shall carry him?”

“It shall, then he shall be returned to us, burning brighter and stronger, without regret.”

Manwe stood and walked out of the great doors into the scattered cloud, his heart aching to have to cast this beauty out onto the will of Ulmo. He walks along the shore, his dark head bowed and troubled by losses, the water racing over his feet and taking him in, little by little, by the will of the Valar, he will succumb.

~ ~ ~

His cloak wraps around the body like a shroud as he lifts it reverently and bears it over the rocks, the winds snapping angrily at his heels as he steadies himself on the path, his hands trembling as he walks against the wind. 

The stars are bright tonight despite the restless wind, which paws him enviously as he walks through the deep grass and tall white flowers, tightly furled in sleep. The kindling light shows him the way back to the house he has burrowed from the earthy bank, protected with screens of kelp and ornamented with conical shells which echo strangely in the winds as if lamenting. 

Pushing open the driftwood, which serves as a door, he half staggers inside, his body thrumming with fear and the realisation that he can bear this burden with ease, for he has grown strong. Within the hole, the fire is still alight in embers, illuminating the small room with a soft orange light. It is snug and warm, despite its meanness. There is a pile of grasses and leaves in one corner that serves as a bed, a rough shelf displaying the few possessions that he can call his own; pieces of glass washed smooth and glowing like precious stones, tiny round globes of amber, tightly whorled shells, pale pink and silver within, and a small wooden box, carved with his own initials, containing a single lock of golden hair. The fire lies in a low pit in the centre of the hole, with a chimney above to let out the smoke and around it lie fish wrapped in leaves and mud, ready to be baked in the ashes. 

He lies the body down on the bed and turns away to build up the fire with more dried driftwood, streaked white with salt. When he turns back, he startles and stills.

The body is stirring, lifting an arm and uttering faint sounds. He hurries over to the bed and sits down, putting a hand to the cold skin and leaning close, as if to better hear the words which he knows he should understand. It seems so long ago, so many years having passed in the blink of an eye. He gathers the bundle of wool in his arms and pulls it back against his chest, holding it close, rocking gently. He knows that he desires this above all else in the world and beyond and yet he can’t remember why. 

The voice murmurs on, “Frodo, Frodo, Frodo…”

And the sound of it fills his heart with a blossoming joy that ripples out and out until he is consumed. 

Standing slowly and shifting the body down onto the bed, he carefully unclasps the wet wool at the throat and draws it away. The body shivers and curls onto its side, it opens its eyes – green and gold. Beech leaves turning at the end of summer, soft light breaking through outspread branches. 

Memories piece together like thread unravelled through a maze as he works his way back, hand over hand, until he can see clearly all that has passed and further back, further than he had any right to see. It all flashes through his mind in an instant, leaving him breathless. 

“Sam?” 

Sam lifts his head and gazes silently, with a mixture of wonder and dread. “Am I here?” he murmurs. “I must be here – and yet, it isn’t what I was expecting….”

Frodo moves over to the fire and pushes the parcels of fish a little closer to the red hot ash. Warming his hands, he moves over to the bed and kneels down beside it. “Your feet,” he says softly and, puzzled, Sam complies. Warm hands surround them and move skillfully, rubbing in circular motions, startling them back to life. 

“So many years have passed and yet you look not a day older,” Frodo says as he works, concentrating his efforts on the soles of Sam’s feet. 

“Not so many as all that. Only ten summers have passed, but it seems longer. It seems like an age,” Sam sighs, shivering and burning at the same time.

Frodo’s hands fall still. “You think about me?”

Sam moans and closes his eyes, his head falling back onto the grassy bed. 

“Are you in pain?” Frodo hurries to his side, lightly touching the glistening forehead. 

Sam shakes his head and tears slide from the corners of his eyes. “Nothing, nothing…”

“This is beyond reason,” Frodo whispers. “You can’t be here. It is my own madness that has conjured you up.”

Rising abruptly, Frodo paces over to the fire and looks hard, delving into the flames as if expecting to see within the intricate minds of the Valar. Seeing nothing but the blue in the heart of the deepest flame, he pledges his soul to those that have sent him this most beloved gift. 

Sam is sitting up now, his damp clothes hanging loosely off his skin, his eyes beseeching. “Are we in the West?”

“I fear not, Sam.” Frodo replies. “I left that place.”

“Then where are we?” 

“Neither in one place or the other, but somewhere in between.”

 

~~~

Sam slept for many weeks, months flew past unnoticed in that place. Frodo walked in the fields and over the cliffs, waiting for his companion to wake, wondering how long this peace would last. The weather grew warm and mild and the island started to awaken as if with the first of Forelithe in the Shire. Old plants from Arda arose in this far-flung place. Primroses grew in the woods and cowslips speckled the fields, green and gold, alongside ragged dandelions and pretty lacy cow parsley that grew tall and lush and honey scented. 

One morning Frodo awoke and felt the warm sunlight on his skin and from the door the singing of a blackbird disorientated him and, hearing Sam humming softly under his breath, he thought himself back home in the Shire and a great joy overwhelmed him. Getting up, he tightened the seaweed belt about his narrow waist, hitching up the ragged breeches that had fallen low on his hips as he twisted and turned in his sleep. Pouring himself a cup of water, he drank slowly, eagerly, for his mouth was dry. Confused by the dark room and the bright light pouring through the slatted doorway, he called out for Sam.

The humming ceased abruptly and the light was swiftly expelled by darkness. 

“Sam?”

“Here, Mister Frodo. I’m here.” Frodo found his hands clasped between two warm palms. “It’s like we’re home. It feels like home, come and look. It’s a glorious spring day!”

Frodo let Sam lead him outside and a warm, salty breeze moved gently over his face, lifting and ruffling the curls that framed his face. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Frodo stood silently, wondering how this bleak place could have suddenly grown so rich and abundant, as though Yavannah had been wandering here in the dead of night scattering her seeds.

“You brought this, Sam.” Frodo smiled, looking over this new and fertile place.

“It reminds me of fourteen twenty,” Sam replied, walking down into the meadow grass and holding out his hand. “Shall we go for a walk?”

Frodo nodded, feeling strange and absent as if he were walking in a dream. “This isn’t real,” he said to himself. This is a dream or a wanting made flesh. This isn’t his time…

“Mister Frodo?” 

He looks so happy, so young and carefree, with the sunlight glimmering in his hair. He looks the way he once looked many years ago…

“Coming?” 

Sam holds out his hand eagerly, waiting and without a further thought Frodo plunges in and takes it, wading in amongst the waving grass and sunlit flowers. 

The blackbird sings, its voice rippling higher and higher until it seems to burst from its throat. Frodo looks about for the singer, but there is nothing to be seen but the dazzling blue sky, cloudless and perfect. 

They walk for hours, through woods and valleys and the foot of hills that Frodo had never seen before. It was as if they were uncovering their own landscape as they walked. Frodo’s hand was clasped within Sam’s and they didn’t let go, not even when they climbed the high hill, laughing and breathless with exhilaration. 

At the summit they flung themselves down onto their backs and looked up at the fleecy clouds racing by, making pictures and telling stories until they grew tired and fell silent once again.

“Just like Forelithe in fourteen twenty – the finest year there ever was.” Sam said, at last. “I only wished…”

Frodo turned his head and looked at Sam. “What, Sam?”

“I only wished that you were able to find the same joy in it,” Sam went on. “It seemed wrong that there was all this life growing and overflowing and there you were, growing dim, it seemed, when all else was growing fair and bright.”

Frodo smiled softly and stroked Sam’s cheek lightly with his fingertip. “Have no regrets. I’ve been offered bliss and gifts beyond my worth.”

“Then why are you here in this lonely place?” 

“I wasn’t satisfied,” Frodo replied. “This is what comes of longing for things that cannot be.”

“I don’t understand…” Sam whispered, a small frown creasing his brow as his fingers stripped a daisy apart, piece by piece.

“I would walk to the sea and ask it to take me and one day it did and it cast me here, alone. I begged them to do it, Sam. I pleaded with them to let me go to place where I could watch the eastern horizon for any trace of a boat. I felt sure it was near your time because it seemed that I had lived in that place for a thousand years. But it appears we don’t share the same sun anymore, Sam. I was mistaken and I’m sorry I called you here…” Frodo’s voice weakened and he stopped, appalled at his own selfishness.

“A thousand years?” Sam repeated, stripping the fine green stem with his thumbnail. He looked up, his eyes wide with wonder. “You look so young.”

“I seem not to age in the same way, only grow differently, stronger, lighter, more agile with every passing day. There are new gifts, new abilities, things I can do that I would have laughed at back in the Shire.”

“Can you cook?” Sam teased, a sparkle of challenge in his eye.

“Well enough,” Frodo laughed. “Although the food is so good, it needs little preparation.”

“Will you cook for me?” 

“Of course, we will go back now and eat, it’s starting to cloud over - the darkness will soon be drawing in.”

Manwe watched the two figures on the hill, outspread on the grass and as much as he delighted to withhold his ferocity and let the summer move and grow over that barren place, it brought with it an ache of sadness and regret so strong that sometimes he could not help but let forth a blast of wind so chill that the flowers curled up their heads and the clouds rippled together as if drawing a cloak against the frosty sky. 

“It’s still early,” Sam commented, as they wended their way home. “It’s easy to forget when the days are so warm. It isn’t summer yet.”

~ ~ ~ 

 

Frodo banked down the embers and watched as Sam lay back on his bed and sighed contentedly as the wind stirred and rattled the woven roof above his head. His gaze slid to Frodo and he watched him closely as he piled ash over the pieces of black smoking wood and glowing red sparks. It still gave a little light although much of the room was in shadow. 

“It sounds like a storm,” Sam said, listening to the wind whistling and snapping at the door.

“It’s the sea,” Frodo replied, brushing the ash of his hands. “The weather changes so quickly.”

“Well, we’re safe in here, at any rate,” Sam smiled broadly. “That was a good dinner, Mister Frodo, thank you. I didn’t think I cared much for fish, but that was nice.”

“So I have learned a thing or two about cooking, then?” Frodo arched an eyebrow.

“Aye, definite improvement there, sir,” Sam laughed. 

“Good,” Frodo said, sitting down on the grassy bed beside Sam. 

They were silent a moment and listened to the wind, watching the shadows deepening and lengthening around them and the moonlight slipping under the door. 

“We should go to bed,” Frodo said, softly, looking down at their hands lying side by side on the bed. 

“Are you tired?” Sam slowly lifted his head and looked into Frodo’s darkening eyes with the starlight kindling in them.

“No Sam.” 

~ ~ ~

Varda scatters her stars broadly; their light is so bright it can dispel even the gloaming of a storm at sea. She desires only that the path should be clear and the shadows kept at bay, she works to reveal and to rekindle what is and what was and what shall be.

Frodo looked up and, through the tear in the roof where the smoke twists and twines, there lay, unveiled, a million tiny stars burning in the dark. Sam caught his breath, for Frodo’s skin was glowing under their light as if only in that magical half-kindling could he be seen in his true skin, and it occurred to Sam once again that his love was changed now in a way beyond his understanding. 

Frodo sat down and turned to Sam, unconscious of the light and the way it throbbed and glowed. He felt only love and hope and the slow burn of desire as he reached out to touch Sam’s softly parted lips with reverent grace. 

Sam closed his eyes and kissed the fingertips gently, his pulse thick and slow as the wheeling stars. 

“Sam, do you want this?” 

Sam could barely hear, but he nodded in acquiescence. 

“Lie down, love.”

Falling back on the soft bed of grass and leaves, his hands open at his sides, Sam’s face was flushed and his eyes glimmered in the starlight.

Frodo untied his belt and cast off his breeches, standing pale and glowing beside the bed, and for a moment, Sam felt half-afraid that such beauty would burn to the touch. 

But as Frodo climbed onto the bed and straddled Sam, unbuttoning and unlacing until he too was naked and revealed, all fears were wiped from Sam’s mind, to be replaced by a raw and desperate need.

“Oh!” Sam gasped, winding his arms around Frodo’s slender body and curling up his legs to better press his hardness against his love’s own arousal which lay against his own, beautiful, flushed and soft as silk. 

Frodo moaned and moved over Sam with short thrusts of his hips, rolling them over onto their side so that they might bring their faces together at last. Sam took Frodo’s chin in his hand and drank deeply of his beauty with his eyes, before bending to press his open mouth against those delicate lips. At once hard and searching they kissed until their tongues were deep and tangled and their breaths halting, drawn from each other’s gasping throat. Their hands moved restlessly through tangled hair and down over sweat slicked skin that shivered and strained and pressed together as if they might forge together through their own will. 

Sam broke the kiss, leaving Frodo’s mouth warm and open and wet as he blinked dazedly and tried to decide what it was he wanted. 

“Yes,” Frodo whispered, lying back and closing his eyes.

Sam crouched over his love and ran his fingers down the flawless body outspread before him, noting how the old wounds had healed and the skin grown softer and more desirable as the spirit within had grown stronger. He took the jutting cock in his hand and ran his thumb over it, making Frodo cry out brokenly. 

A thrill of sadness rippled through Sam for a moment, as if he were recalling this in a dream he had once had long ago; but the feeling soon passed, for his fingers were slick with need and Frodo was undulating beneath him with want and desire. 

Lowering himself to his elbows, he kissed the tip and then ran the flat of his tongue across it. There was salt there, like the taste of the waves and the sea that saturated this place. Trailing his tongue lower, Sam drew long, sweet curves with his tongue until he felt Frodo’s hands clutching his shoulders and he raised his head in enquiry. 

“Please,” Frodo gasped again, and Sam withdrew, looking for guidance for he was inexperienced in this way of love. Frodo, seeing his confusion, took Sam’s hand and pushed his fingers inside his own mouth, swirling his tongue around them until they were wet. He nodded at Sam and lay back, waiting, his cheeks rose brushed and his lips half open, his breaths light and expectant. 

Sam knelt down between Frodo’s splayed legs and, trusting to his own instincts, pushed and curled first one finger, then another, pressing inwards and stroking inch by inch, deeper and wider, watching Frodo’s face as it gradually relaxed into bliss. When he thought that Frodo was growing close, he positioned himself with care and, pausing a moment to see that Frodo was attentive and stroking himself slowly, bit down on his lower lip and eased within. 

He groaned and paused, the shock of it stopping him dead in his tracks. The heat and the thrill of their joining almost enough to make him faint cold. He trembled so hard that Frodo eased himself up a little and begged to know what was wrong. Sam couldn’t speak, only rocked himself slowly deeper, making Frodo fall back with a soft cry. Soon the demands of his body began to overwhelm his other senses and he moved over his love with a strong and steady rhythm, bringing Frodo’s thighs up over his hips, so that he might bury himself as deep as a flower roots into the soil. Frodo rolled beneath him, his arms winding around Sam’s neck as he closed his eyes in ecstasy, murmuring soft love words, that were almost weeping. 

So soon it seemed, the seed was bursting from him and he was thrusting it deep into his love, so deep it would plant itself there and blossom and grow. Frodo was bucking up against him and, seeing his love’s need, Sam eased out with a low moan and enveloped him in his mouth, sucking strongly until he swallowed his release, stroking the smooth, hard belly gently as it fluttered under his cheek. Then he raised his head and shaking so hard it seemed he would fall apart, looked down on his exhausted, beautiful love and felt complete. 

~ ~ ~

Manwe sighs as he watches his wife’s handiwork spinning through the sky, illuminating the two lovers wrapped now in sleep and embraces. The dark haired one, the one with the gift for poetry and music, the things he prizes above all else, is restless in his dreams. He knows that he must return soon, he feels his lover’s strength waning even as he sleeps, sated and safe under his arm. His eyes are like jewels, Manwe muses. His own eyes were once remarked upon, reflecting as they do, the exact colour of a midsummer sky, echoed in his robes and the sapphires on his hands and toes and clasped around his neck, but the eyes of that moonstruck elf, his eyes are of a clearer blue, a blue he would like to possess, yet fears he cannot.

“This idea of yours, husband, is it not going as planned?” 

Manwe turns to his wife. “He will look once more to Valinor, once he has wearied of the mortal.”

Varda shakes her head. “I fear you are misguided. Anyone can see that they are two halves of a whole and whilst they remain parted, they are incomplete. You have brought them together, but the young one is not ready. He has much to achieve on Arda, I saw it by the stars. He thinks his love will bear fruit here, but it cannot. It falls on stony ground. All the flowers there will only last an hour, they will soon fade and die. That isle was not made for life or love, all things will wither there in time, and you knew it well, cruel Manwe.”

Manwe turned from his wife and strode back into his cloudy chamber. “The mortal shall return, he has much to do. The muscian will play his lyre and torment me with his songs for all eternity.”

“Until he is complete and then there will be harmony,” Varda replies shortly, smiling down on the sleeping pair. “Be gentle, send a good wind their way, a warm breeze that will ease their parting…”

“I desire him even yet,” Manwe complained. “But I shall do as you say, for I see it is hopeless.”

“You see clearly!” Varda laughed and walked out under the stars, her feet trailing diamonds where she passed through banks of cloud. Manwe slammed the door and the reverberations were felt through the whole of Valinor in a great clap of thunder. 

~ ~ ~ 

For many months the isle remained suspended in early spring, the flowers opening and closing with the sun, their beauty undimmed by the passing of the long days. 

Every morning, Frodo and Sam would wake to the warm breeze and the sunlight sliding across their skin. The blackbird sang as it used to on the apple tree in the Bag End garden and they would curl together and kiss each other awake, still drunk on their new love, deep in their dreams. When they rose at last in the late morning, they would walk out across the fields to the wood and bathe there in the cold stream and drink a little of its reviving waters. Plucking wild berries, they ate as they walked to the very edge of the sea and sat down there to watch the waves scuttling over the placid blue. Sam would run his hands through the mossy grass and discover tiny delicate flowers he would press between stones and carry home in his pocket. There was another collection now, arranged on the shelf beside Frodo’s glass and shells and little wooden box. 

When the day started to wane, they would collect wood for the fire along the sea shore and they would gather shellfish or sometimes a fish, if they had taken the lines with them on their backs. Once home they would cook in companionable silence and then eat their food hungrily, their eyes catching and sparking in anticipation. When they had finished, they would wipe their hands and stand together before the fire glow, running their fingers over each other’s skin. Both were sparsely dressed now, Sam’s shirt having run itself to ruins as Frodo’s had done, and all that covered their bodies were loosely tied breeches worn thin by the wilds and the weather and the cold scrubbings in the river. Untying each other’s rough belts, they would undress and embrace, making love slowly and passionately, as if they existed solely for this pleasure. 

But one evening, as Frodo untied Sam’s belt and ran his hands down the sturdy, golden body that stood revealed before him, he frowned and grew suddenly solemn. 

“What is it, love?” Sam asked, tilting Frodo’s head. 

“You’re growing thin,” Frodo said, sadly. 

“’Tis just all the fresh air wearing the flesh off my bones! That and the fish, my body’s missing the butter and the cream,” he smiled, rubbing Frodo’s cheek with his thumb.

“And other things…” Frodo whispered. 

“What…?” Sam stuttered, holding Frodo’s face within his hands and lovingly caressing it as he puzzled over his words.

“I know you’ve been thinking of home, of your Rosie and your little ones. It’s all right, Sam. I know you miss them and it grieves you to admit it.”

“No, Frodo. I want to be with you, I have no regrets.”

“Don’t deny it, Sam, there is no need. You can return to them and not a month will have passed. It’s all right – you can go to them.”

“And leave you for another thousand years!”

“It wasn’t your time, Sam!”

“We can stay here, Frodo, look what a world we have here – it’s beautiful.”

“It’s dying, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes grew wide and his hands fell.

“The flowers are fading and the weather is not as warm as it was. I am cold at night and you are growing thin, Sam, too thin... you must go now and return to me when the time is right. I will be waiting for you on the white shore. I will ask to be reprieved, I will let you go, Sam. I will let you go.”

Sam looked at Frodo with tears in his eyes. “It’s true I have been thinking of them, and sometimes I ache to hold the baby so’s I can hardly bear it, but I will, for you, I will…”

Frodo shook his head.

“Don’t do this to me again, not after all we’ve shared!” Sam cried.

“It isn’t an eternity, to you it will pass as easy as one summer to the next and I will be waiting for you to come when you are ready.”

“I should never have come, but the yearning, it was too strong to resist…”

“But now you shall, for your little boat won’t carry you any further than these shores and I shall be beyond its reach. When you come, it shall be on the straight road.”

“And if I say no?” Sam said, turning away, the sight of his love bringing too great a hurt.

“Then we will part and there will be no life left for either of us.”

“You will be lonely, all those long years…”

Frodo stepped up behind Sam and laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I shall return to my house on Tol Eressea and I shall compose music to play for you when you come to me. As you step off the white ship I shall be there and the lyre will be singing in my hand, calling you home.”

Sam sobbed and turned back to his love, clasped him in his arms and held him tightly, swaying a little on his feet. 

Frodo spoke gently, stroking Sam's back. “You have your life to live and your children to enjoy. There will be no fruition of our love in this bleak place.”

As Sam turned to the meadow, he saw had the green grass was yellowing and the leaves were waning golden on the trees. “It’s as though we’ve lived a whole year in this place and its coming round to winter. I wonder how long it’s been since I set off in the boat?”

“Not many weeks, I should think. They will not know you’ve been away.”

Sam nodded and wiped his eyes. “The boat was wreaked, Frodo. I don’t know how I can sail back, I don’t even know the way…”

“I would offer you my wings, but I don’t think you would get very far,” Frodo smiled. 

“Wings?” Sam raised his eyebrows and Frodo laughed. 

“See the lengths I would have gone to, just to see you, to know that you were happy!”

Frodo pulled out from behind the bed, a heap of sticks and leaves with intricate frameworks of bone and feather and shell within. Sam held them, amazed by their lightness and the beauty of their construction. 

“How would they fit?” he asked, flexing them in and out.

Frodo showed Sam the straps and stepped behind him to attach them to his shoulders with straps of leathery seaweed. Sam was most impressed and rolled his shoulders experimentally, enjoying the rush and creak of the leaves and fanning pinions carved so delicately they might have been made of bone. 

“They’re wonderful, Frodo! I want to try them!” 

Frodo looked at Sam in admiration and love; the green and white wings framed his golden hair like a crown. “I’m afraid they will not work, but go ahead and try, Sam-love.”

Sam turned at Frodo’s words and kissed him deeply. “I love you,” he said, and turned to the sea. 

“Sam!” Frodo shouted. “Sam!”

But Sam wasn’t listening, he was running, the wind tearing at his face and roaring in his ears as he fled across the ageing grass, taking great strides towards the cliffs. He didn’t look back – he couldn’t. He just closed his eyes and kept on running, his arms outspread, filling with air and the promise of home. 

~ ~ ~

“Do it, then,” Varda said, from the mountain, sitting in her silver chair. “Help him along a little.”

Manwe watched the little figure and shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t understand these creatures, they baffle me utterly…” 

Taking a deep breath, filling his huge lungs, he directed his full attention to the little island on the edge of the circle of light, and blew as hard as ever he could, sending a gale over the woods and hills, cracking branches and lifting them to the sky where it passed, taking all within its path until finally it came to the sea and, as it swept over the cliffs, brushed a small mortal off his feet.

All Sam could do was gasp in amazement as he found himself weightless and drifting, moving his arms in stuttered flight over the dark blue sea, inky now as the night was falling and the stars peeping out one by one. 

Varda laughed and clapped her hands and Manwe blew a little harder, sending Sam sailing further and further and faster and faster, carried above a great wave that grew quite tremendous by the time it reached the shores of Aman, engulfing the statues of the High Elves that waited on the banks of the Grey Havens in silent contemplation, and throwing Sam out of the sky and onto the sodden sand, his wings crumpled beneath him. 

~ ~ ~

Frodo watched the little bird grow ever smaller, carrying the wind with it as though it was itself the source of the wild gale that had ravaged the island, destroying all within its wake. 

With a heavy heart, he watched until at last, the darkness drew her cloak around him and he began to shiver. 

“Fly away home,” he whispered, listening to the song of the stars and keeping the memory of it in his soul to be captured on the strings of his lyre. Turning his back on the sea, he walked away.


End file.
